


Prince Errant

by firefright, TaneKore



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Fireworks, Gen, Injury, Royalty, Scarring, Slavery, future relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaneKore/pseuds/TaneKore
Summary: After being shot down in battle, Prince Jason Todd awakens to find himself a slave aboard an enemy warship. Unrecognised by those who captured him, he quickly realises his continued survival will depend on his ability to keep his true identity hidden. A task that becomes all the harder when he discovers his new master is to be Prince Timothy Drake, sworn enemy of his house, who despite never having met him face to face before, holds a deeply personal grudge against Jason.





	Prince Errant

**Author's Note:**

> And here's the second piece I wrote for the JayTim summer week! This one is based on the day 7 prompt of 'Fireworks', and can largely be blamed on the wonderful [Jaykore](jaykore.tumblr.com), who both enabled me during a discussion on how much we love the Captive Prince books to write a JayTim AU inspired by them, and then later on added the idea of what if that story was set in space as well. Both of which resulted in them drawing some [amazing art of the final scene!](http://jaykore.tumblr.com/post/163611191400/jaytimweek-summer-2k17-day-7-gotham-tourist)
> 
> That said, knowledge of Captive Prince is not at all necessary to understand this story (which borrows only loosely from the book's overarching plot), so don't worry if you haven't read it, you should still find plenty to enjoy here ;D

The wing of the starfighter is still smoking when Tim’s men lead him to it, its nose buried deep in the wet earth of the battlefield where the crash occurred. A deep furrow betrays the trajectory at which the ship had met the ground, running at least 200 feet from beginning to end, and the lieutenant guiding Tim takes care to lead him around that trench, wary of letting his commander’s impeccably polished boots sink down into the muddy ground.

Men have been punished for far less in the Red Empire.

The closer he gets, the more Tim gets a better idea of what has his soldiers so excited. Underneath the black scorch marks and mud spattered across her hull, the starfighter is coloured a deep rust red. Painted in the way that only a squad commander’s ship would be, and though that alone is enough to arouse his interest, it isn’t until one of the men currently trying to prise open the ship’s canopy moves aside enough that he can see the crest painted along her flank that Tim’s heart really starts to pound in his chest.

A black bat, outlined in gold against the red; he’d know that mark anywhere.

“Get that ship open,” Tim snaps at the lieutenant, as if the men scrambling across her hull weren’t already trying to do exactly that. “ _Now._ ”

“Y-yessir. Your Highness.” The man, Ferran, relatively new to his command and nervous about it, stammers, before stomping forward to shout orders at the rest that don’t do much more than add to the chaos.

They were lucky, Tim thinks, as he stands back, watching with a hand wrapped around the collapsed bo staff at his waist. Both that the ship’s ejection system must have failed on the way down, and that it was Tim’s people who found her first. But they have a limited time in which to work before other interested parties will come to sweep the battlefield, and if the pilot of this starfighter is the man Tim thinks he is, he wants them to be gone long before that happens.

It still takes time, minutes longer than they have, but then one enterprising private has the brains to go and requisition a laser cutter from one of the clean-up crews working through the remains of a corvette nearby, and the canopy doesn’t last against that.

He doesn’t move as they drag the pilot out, keeping his expression calmly neutral even as suspicion begins to turn to outright jubilation among the men.

“Your Highness,” Ferran says breathlessly, after he’s scrambled back to Tim’s side to confirm what he already knows. “It’s him! It’s the prince! Jason Wayne. We have to send word to Lord Ra’s, he’ll be—”

Tim holds up a leather-gloved hand to stop him before he can say anything further. “Bring him here.” he orders, coldly. “Show me his face.”

The soldiers cast nervous glances at each other as two of them drag the prisoner forward. Unconscious and with his helmet removed, the pilot’s head hangs down facing the mud. Tim gestures impatiently for them to lift it up.

“You see, sir?” Ferran says again, more cautiously this time. “It is him.”

Tim says nothing as he studies the pilot’s face. The black curls of hair tumbling down across his brow, the crooked line of his nose; every hated and well studied feature, no longer projected on a view screen, but right here in front of him.

Finally he steps forward, letting go of the bo staff and reaching for the small knife kept in his sleeve instead.

“Sir?” Ferran’s eyes widen, “What are—”

“Prince Jason of House Wayne?” Tim shakes his head, “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Lieutenant.” With a single deft movement, he brings the blade down across the pilot’s face. Blood spurts out from the new wound, a red dripping line that runs down the man’s forehead, over his eye and across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. “Royalty, even barbarians like the Wayne’s, would never allow themselves to have such a scar as this man has. Though the resemblance is remarkable, clearly it cannot be him.”

Silence hangs heavy for a moment over the small assembly of soldiers.

Then finally, Ferran straightens. “Yes… yes, of course. Right you are, sir. My apologies for the mistake.”

Tim doesn’t deign to look at him, keeping his eyes focused on the pilot. “I find myself in need of a new slave, this man will do. Have him brought to my ship and cleaned up. Do _not_ let him die.”

A quick learner, Ferran snaps a salute, “Yessir.”

Tim turns to leave, “Oh, and Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The colour of that fighter offends me; atomise it. I don’t want a single scrap left to be found by the salvage crews.”

“... right. Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Confident that his orders will be followed, Tim strides across the field of the dead and the dying, towards the shuttle waiting to take him back to where the _Redbird_ hangs in orbit.

**

Jason doesn’t remember the crash.

He remembers the moments that came before it; the exhilaration of battle and flight, adrenaline flowing through his veins every time he knocked an enemy ship out of the sky. A giddy thrill that soon turned to horror, when a stray rocket caught the wing of his starfighter and every light on the console in front of him turned red.

Total system failure. Even the ejector hadn’t worked as he frantically slammed his fist against it, and the last thing he can remember was the dizzying feeling of being trapped in a free-fall beyond his control, before — perhaps mercifully — the resulting g-forces caused him to black out.

Needless to say, the last thing Jason expected after that moment was to wake up again.

He comes to with a white ceiling above him. A med bay, he assumes, which is more expected. Glaring fluorescent lights hurt his eyes, and he blinks rapidly to adjust them before attempting to look around.

Plain white walls to match the ceiling. Empty flat, uncomfortable looking beds, with incomprehensibly purposed machines next to them — including his own. _Definitely_ a med bay.

There’s no sign of a doctor though. Not even a nurse unit. Jason grimaces, an unfamiliar ache covering the right side of his face as he moves to sit up.

Attempts to sit up, at any rate.

A soft clink of metal is his first clue that something is drastically wrong. Jason looks first at one wrist, then the other, before craning his neck upwards to try and get a look at his feet. Each limb is encased in a metal restraint, black with geometric threads of gold running through it, magnetically fastened to the bed. Try as he might, he can’t move them.

“What the fuck…?” Jason whispers, shocked by the revelation.

He’s tied down. Why is he tied down? Did he try to hurt someone in his sleep? It’s not out of the realms of possibility with the dreams he sometimes has, and when he sleeps, certain survival instincts still come into play even after all these years. That explanation, however, doesn’t feel right. And now, the longer he’s awake, the more Jason starts to notice all the other little details that are wrong around him.

Every ship in Bruce’s fleet has protocols, rules that must be followed down to the letter during construction, and the layout of this med-bay doesn’t follow them. The location of the door, the beds; the lights that are hard fluorescent instead of soothingly calibrated to be easy on a recovering patient’s eyes… it’s all wrong. No nurse-unit on standby — there should always be at least one, and worst of all, there’s a security camera hanging in the corner of the room, conspicuous enough to let him know he’s being watched. All of which leaves Jason to draw only one chilling conclusion.

He’s not on one of Bruce’s ships.

And just as he deduces that, the door slides open.

The first person to step through into the room is a man. Jason feels himself tense up as his eyes track down the uniform he’s wearing; black, double breasted, with only a strip of white across the chest to indicate his profession. A doctor then, but definitely not one of theirs. He’s an Imperial, and the woman behind him, a soldier with red across her breast, only confirms it.

“See?” The doctor says, tall with white hair and deep wrinkles lining his face. A pair of optics attached to his temples activate as he looks down at Jason, sliding in front of his eyes to magnify his vision. “I told you he was awake.”

“He was supposed to be awake _yesterday_.” The woman, short and with a completely shaven head, sneers at him. “You’re almost twenty-four hours overdue, and you know how impatient the prince gets.”

The doctor harrumphs as he peers in closer at Jason’s face, “The laws of nature do not bend even for a prince, Sergeant Wood. I did my work as fast as I could.”

“It’s Pru, Villain,” the sergeant mutters, displaying a complete lack of respect for military protocol. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Pru.”

“Not when you’re on duty, it isn’t.” The doctor replies, far more professionally. Jason sneers at him, watching white circles and lines dance across the blue glass of the optics, displaying data he can’t read from his position. The doctor, Villain (which is a less than reassuring name), looks satisfied though. “Yes, yes indeed. The injury appears to have healed nicely alongside the rest. I think it’s safe to say he’s ready for you to take him out of my hands now.”

“Good, because if I don’t get him cleaned up and to the prince before the celebration starts, I’ll be the one strung up next.”

Both are acting as if Jason isn’t here, awake and able to hear every word they’re saying about him. He’s confused, and far more than that, he’s _angry_.

“Who the hell do you think you’re—” he starts to demand, ignoring the tight sore feeling stretching down the side of his face, but the woman, Pru, snaps at him before he can get any further than that.

“Shut your mouth, soldier! Grunts like you talk when you are spoken to, or don’t they teach you that in the Republic army?”

_Grunt?_

For a moment, all Jason can do is stare at her. “The fuck did you just call me?”

She narrows her eyes down at him. “What? Are you deaf as well as stupid? Shut your bleeding mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Now Jason is even more stunned, uncertain if he heard her right. Then the words process, alongside another startling, seemingly impossible realisation.

_They don’t know who I am._

That’s… that can’t be right. He’s the second prince of Gotham, of the Golden Republic. His face has been broadcast across the galaxy more times than he can count. His picture is available in any archive and general information database there is. There’s no way anyone in the Empire couldn’t know his identity. Yet here he is, tied down, bound for sure, yet… Jason looks around, forgetting Pru and the doctor for a moment.

He woke up here with no guards on duty beside him. No security in place to monitor his condition except the machines and single visible camera in the corner. For the high profile captive he _should_ be, such lax precautions would be unthinkable. Ergo, they really must not, for whatever reason, have recognised him. Not yet. And as soon as Jason’s realised and come to terms with that, a second, even more imperative thought occurs.

_I can’t let them know who I am._

His chances of survival and escape aboard an Imperial ship may very well depend on it.

“All right,” Pru speaks up again, interrupting his admittedly spiralling thoughts. “Let’s get this show on the road. On your feet, scumbag.”

To Jason’s great shock, the restraints holding him demagnetise all at once. He can’t see the cause, but he suspects the way Pru has her right hand concealed in her trouser pocket has something to do with it. The doctor meanwhile stands back, not saying anything, merely observing.

Somehow, he resists the temptation to spring up onto his feet and make a run for the door, climbing slowly off the bed instead. “What’s going on?” he asks, “Why am I here?” He lets his lips curl into a sneer, “What do you want with me, Imperial?”

It’s nothing no loyal soldier of his homeworld wouldn’t demand in his position.

Pru’s answer is a rather nasty smirk. “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Now are you going to behave like a good little prisoner, or am I going to have to get rough with you?”

Jason looks her over, making a show of it as he does. She’s short, barely comes up to his shoulder. He’s sure he could take her.

Now however, is probably not the time. Not until he has a better idea of where he is, and how to get out of here.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to settle. To rein in the infamous temper that has gotten him into deep trouble more than once. “Look, I just want to know what I’m doing here. Why I’m not in a cell, or dead.”

Pru and the doctor exchange another look. Then she sniffs, rolling her eyes. “Simple, you’re spoils of war, and the prince has claimed you.”

“Prince?”

“Prince Timothy Drake, the fuck other prince do you know?” She snaps at him, “Now follow me.”

_Prince Timothy Drake._

A flash of memory comes to him suddenly. Light in orbit. A fighter ship, black and red, exploding into stardust.

Jason’s heart starts to pound in his chest. “Are you telling me I’m a slave?”

“You’re whatever the hell I say you are. Now last chance, move or else.”

Jason takes a step back, horror spilling out of every pore, “I’m no one’s slave.”

Pru rolls her eyes, then spits on the ground in front of him. A second later, _pain_ fills Jason’s world.

When he comes back out of it, he’s on the metal floor of the medbay. His limbs jerk in minute spasms, his ears ring, and his teeth feel swollen in his jaw.

“You like that?” Pru asks from where she’s crouched down next to him, looking bored. “Little electric shock, courtesy of those cuffs you’re wearing. Not just decorative, you see.”

Jason tries to respond, but mostly ends up dribbling.

“That was just the first setting, by the way. A little love tap. Try disobeying me again, and I’ll have to keep upping the voltage. Understand?”

It takes Jason a couple tries, but he does eventually manage to nod. If that was the lowest setting, he really doesn’t want to find out what the higher ones feel like.

Somewhere to the left of him, the doctor says, “Do try not to break him, Sergeant Wood. I did just finish putting the man back together.”

“If anyone breaks him, it’ll be the prince, not me.” Pru retorts, before standing and nudging Jason with the steel toe of her boot. “C’mon, get up. We’ll be even more late if you keep this up.”

Gritting his teeth, Jason forces his uncooperative limbs back into motion.

**

Outside the medbay, they’re joined two more soldiers. Lower ranked than Pru, judging by the width of the stripes across their chests. The two men carry rifles, and are completely silent as they fall into step behind them.

Jason is torn between looking everywhere he can to get some idea of the layout of the ship he’s on, and keeping his head down out of fear of someone recognising him. Eventually, after traversing four or five similarly blank grey corridors with minimal identifying markings, he decides his best bet may be with doing the latter.

Pru leads him to an elevator, which then goes down six floors before opening again. When they step out of it, they’re greeted by a portly man with a grey beard and blue band across his chest. Pru introduces him to Jason as the prince’s purser, and master of all non-military personnel aboard ship.

Personnel that includes slaves, apparently.

“He’s too tall,” the purser says, scowling at Jason’s appearance. “And that face…”

“He’s what the prince wants.” Pru replies shortly, while Jason bristles at what he takes to be an implication that he’s ugly. It’s bad enough his body hurts all over from the electric shock, he doesn’t need to be insulted too. “Do you want to go argue that? Just do the best job you can. And quickly.”

The purser scowls, but doesn’t disagree any further. Jason’s starting to get the idea that all the rumours he’s heard about Prince Timothy (cold, demanding, spoilt, and worst of all, _ruthless_ ) may not be rumours at all, but fact. Impatiently, he gestures for Jason to follow him, which he does — if only because he himself is still being followed by the two armed soldiers while Pru waits back by the elevator.

“In there.” The purser directs him, when they come to a steel door that looks much the same as any other Jason’s seen aboard this ship so far. “Five minutes, wash that stink off of you.”

He’s shoved forward by the butt of a rifle into a plain tiled shower room. One of the soldiers follows him inside, ostensibly to keep him honest.

“Great.” Jason mutters, grateful that years of military service have largely immunised him to not being alone when he showered already.

He manages to strip off the plain white patient’s clothing he’s wearing without too much trouble, though the shirt sleeves and pant legs catch on the cuffs wrapped around each limb. There’s no button to activate the water; it comes on automatically the moment Jason steps within range of the nearest shower head, and he hisses at the scalding temperature when the stream hits him.

He was told to be quick about it, but Jason still can’t resist looking down at himself, trying to get a good assessment of any lingering injuries he may have. Mild discolouration to his ribs is all he can find. Jason guesses they must have put him in a regeneration pod, or used some kind of nano-gel to fix up the worst of it. There’s no way he could have walked away from the crash this intact by himself.

Then he reaches up to his face, to test the stiffness he feels there, and freezes.

This… this is no bruise.

Alarmed, Jason looks around the room for a mirror, and finds one, small and utilitarian; meant for shaving only perhaps. It’s still good enough to let him see what’s become of his face, and discover why no one here can apparently recognise him for who he is.

He has a scar.

It’s deep, starting from his forehead just above his right eyebrow, before gouging a path down almost to the corner of his mouth. The scar tissue itself is still raw pink against the paleness of the rest of his skin, and stands out ever more starkly as Jason’s face loses more colour the longer he stares at it. It’s _hideous._

How? he thinks numbly. He was wearing a helmet when his fighter went down. How can the rest of his body be so intact, yet this scar be here?

“Oi,” the guard who followed him into the showers interrupts his thoughts, “Stop admiring yourself and get scrubbing. You heard the man, five minutes.”

Jason bites his lip as he looks at his reflection one last time. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s just a scar; he had plenty more of them before he met Bruce. He can get this one taken care of just the same as he did those others once he gets home.

Jason scrubs himself down as quickly and efficiently as he can, getting the med-stink off his body, and giving his short curled hair a quick rinse over too. Despite the way he has to rush through it — and his audience — the wash feels good, though the worry over what’s yet to come, and how he’s going to get out of this situation, never strays far from his mind.

The only strategy Jason can think of for now is to keep playing along. Sooner or later, if he waits long enough, some opportunity for escape is bound to appear. His biggest concern is the prospect of meeting the prince, and in the last moment before the guard calls him out of the water, Jason closes his eyes, seeing that explosion played back across his retinas yet again like a bad dream.

No towel is offered to him when he leaves the shower. The water stops by itself the same way it began, and when he reaches to pull the medical scrubs back on again, the soldier shakes his head. “Back out that way.” he’s ordered.

Jason flushes at having to leave the washroom naked, moreso when the door is opened and not just the purser, but a whole entourage is revealed to be waiting there for him to emerge.

“What are you just standing around for?” the purser huffs when he freezes in the doorway, “Hurry up and come this way!”

The rest of the group consists of low-ranking slaves, dressed entirely in brown without a drop of black among them (keeping track of the Empire’s colour-coded caste system is already starting to give Jason a headache). They don’t hesitate before descending upon him the moment he’s in range, and he endures their touch through gritted teeth, mindful of the cuffs and the pain they can bring if he’s seen not to be acting obediently enough.

In no time at all, he’s pulled to another room, and made to sit down on a stool in the middle of it. One slave, a young blonde woman, stands behind him, working quickly and efficiently with a comb and a pair of scissors in an attempt to neaten his hair. If he thought the purser would allow her to listen, Jason would tell her it’s pointless; there’s never been a day in his life that his hair has obeyed the whim of another besides itself.

Others take his hands, his feet. They work on his nails, trimming and filing them down to a pleasing shape. One even takes hold of his jaw, turning his head this way and that before bringing out a razor to get rid of his stubble.

In the background he can hear the purser, muttering over what Jason thinks is clothing judging by the language he’s using. Sleeves or no sleeves, open chest or closed, that sort of thing. Jason can feel himself start to sweat the longer he’s forced to sit here — they even pluck his damn eyebrows — and then he sees another slave approaching him with what looks like a palette of makeup.

Now he reacts, pulling his lips back into a snarl. “No.”

“Something has to be done about that scar,” the purser snaps at him when he notices this, “And you are not in a position to argue.”

“You are not painting me up like some kind of—!”

“Leave it for this one.” Pru’s voice interrupts lazily from the door, “You’ve run out of time, the prince wants him now. He’ll have to go ‘au naturel’.”

The purser sputters, offended at being told how to do his job Jason can tell at once, but also — just as he told Jason — in no position to argue. “All right, all right. Get him up, put the clothes on, hurry!”

The outfit they give him is red and black — the prince’s colours the slaves tell him, not knowing that he hardly needs to be informed about that. A sleeveless shirt first, loose when Jason initially puts it on, before the intelligent fabric rapidly tightens itself against his skin to the point where it almost feels like he’s wearing nothing at all. It’s cut in a way that exposes a good deal of bare skin over his hips, and the black matching pants that accompany the shirt do nothing to help dampen that feeling of exposure. They must be made of the same fabric the shirt is, because they also become almost skin tight against his legs, and Jason tries not to think too hard about any secondary functions that fabric might have as he’s made to put on a pair of soft slippered shoes to complete the outfit.

So far, everything Imperial he’s encountered seems to have more to it than meets the eye.

Distracted, he misses the sound of someone stepping up behind him. That is until cold metal is wrapped around his neck.

Jason freezes as the gold is pressed into place. _Living metal_ , he realises, when a second later it slides across his skin, twining itself into a pattern like a snake around the column of his throat. Deadly on the battlefield when dropped on top of a battalion of soldiers, the invention has a secondary home among the rich and powerful as a symbol of status and wealth. It moves easily when Jason swallows, malleable even as it stays bonded to his skin. A brand of ownership that will never come off unless its owner — _his_ owner, wishes it to.

_Fuck._

“No.” he starts to say, hand reaching up to futilely pull at the metal. “No, get this off me, I won’t wear it. Get it off—”

Pru steps forward, the control for the cuffs visible in her hand. She raises one eyebrow up as her thumb hovers over the activation button. “Are we having a problem?”

Jason stiffens as he looks at her. And for a moment he almost doesn’t care if she’ll hurt him for it, he _wants_ to attack her. But then reason reasserts itself and he backs down, heaving in one deep breath after another.

It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s just a show. It’ll be fine. He can do this.

“No.” he mutters bitterly, “No problem.”

“Good.” She jerks her head back towards the elevator door. “Now let’s get going, we’ve already wasted enough time here.”

Jason’s starting to get more than a little tired of being ordered from place to place, running at Pru’s heels with guns pointed at his back, but there’s still no choice but to obey. Not if he wants to survive. He reminds himself yet again that he’s not Prince Jason here, not to these people, and he can’t become that person either. If they recognise him, they’ll torture him, if not for information then simply for who he is. They’ll use him either as a hostage or to send a message to his father, and that Jason can’t allow.

He has to get out of here by himself, and pray that Bruce doesn’t think he’s dead already.

This time, there’s a notable change in the atmosphere of the ship around them as they move through it; riding the elevator up more floors than Jason can easily keep track of. Plain gunmetal grey walls turn to dark polished steel. The effect on the floor is almost like marble, and an ostentatious amount of gold filigree runs up over the wastefully decorative arches fitted at intervals throughout the corridors. Here and there, holoprojectors play short recordings of notable Imperial artworks. It’s garish luxury, onboard what he takes to be a warship.

But stronger than his disgust at his surroundings is Jason’s trepidation over the man he’s about to meet, and he braces himself as they come to a set of wide doors, guarded by soldiers like Pru and the ones behind him, outfitted in black and red.

At their approach, one of the men presses a button on the side of the doors. There’s a brief pause before they slide open, and when they do, Pru doesn’t hesitate to usher Jason inside.

In the quarters beyond, the luxury that forms this part of the ship becomes even more apparent. There is actual carpet beneath Jason’s feet now, not metal. Canvas pictures hang on the walls instead of holograms, and a low table — made from real wood —- fills the centre of the room inside the curved line of a plush couch. There’s even a bookcase, which Jason can’t help but eye out of reflex for a moment, hungry at the prospect of physical paper books.

But the focal point of the room, and what seizes Jason’s attention the most, is the floor to ceiling window looking out into space. It stretches from one corner to another, casting an impressive view of the cosmos beyond, as well as the fleet of Imperial ships orbiting what looks to be the moon of the planet he was on.

If Jason had any doubt he was fucked before, it’s gone now.

A figure, a boy maybe, judging on his size, stands before the window. His figure is slender, and wreathed in a half cape that hangs just to the small of his back. Black, on top of the deep red of the rest of his outfit.

Jason clenches his jaw when the figure turns around. No boy, he amends himself. No, it’s the very man he’s been brought here to see; the man Pru told him he now belongs to.

Prince Timothy Drake, of the Red Empire.

Jason forces himself to hold his gaze steady as they look at each other. He recognises that pale, delicately pointed face from a thousand different holovids watched over the years. Spy footage, stolen security surveillance, and propaganda movies all in equal measure.

If he’s going to recognise Jason in turn, it will almost certainly happen now.

But he doesn’t. Not a flicker of recognition passes across those cool blue eyes, bordering on stormy grey. Jason swallows, barely holding back a sigh of relief, that turns into a startled yelp when Pru kicks him to his knees.

“You _kneel_ before the prince, idiot.”

Briefly, Jason entertains a vision of how very violently he would like to shut her up.

But before anything else can happen, the prince himself holds up a hand. “That will be all, Pru. Hand the leash to me, you can go.”

Pru eyes Jason suspiciously a moment longer, but then steps forward and passes the control to the cuffs to Timothy. One short bow later, she exits the room.

Jason stiffens at the sound of the doors sliding shut.

“What’s your name?” the prince asks him.

“Jay.” Jason fumbles out, knowing that hesitating would be a very bad idea right now, and cursing himself for not thinking through the simple matter of a name for his disguise before. He’s certainly had ample time for it.

“Jay.” the prince repeats. “And do you know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are.” Jason lets more street bleed out into his accent. Best not to sound like pampered royalty. He’ll apologise to Alfred for falling back into bad habits later, if he gets the chance.

A smile curves the prince’s lips. They’re soft pink, and distractingly pretty next to his white skin — far paler than Jason’s — and dark hair. “Even on Gotham?”

“Hard not to.” Jason replies cautiously, “We’re at war with you.”

“Yes,” Timothy says, “You are. Do you know why you’re here, Jay?”

This time he lets his lip curl in distaste. “Your bitch out there said I’m supposed to be your slave. Said you picked me out personally or something.”

The smile doesn’t leave Timothy’s lips. “I did.”

Jason measures his next words carefully, picking out a reply that fits in with the persona he’s hoping to put across here; that of a rough Republic soldier, an ordinary pilot, rather than a prince. “Why me?”

Timothy looks momentarily surprised, “A slave isn’t supposed to ask questions of a prince.”

“A Republic soldier isn’t supposed to accept orders from an Imperial.” Jason spits back. “Prince or otherwise.”

A quiet moment passes. Then the agony hits Jason yet again.

It’s worse this time. The prince is crueler than Pru was, making good on her threat to take the voltage of the electricity to the next level. He holds the button down longer too, watching impassively as Jason writhes on the carpet in front of him, limbs spasming outwards as each cuff imparts its own separate shock into his body. By the time Timothy lets go, sweat is running in rivers off Jason’s body, soaking into his soft clothing and making a complete waste of the five minutes he spent showering.

“Fuck…” he chokes, eyes burning. “Fuck… f-fuck you…”

A foot, small and delicate but for the hard boot encasing it, steps onto the center of his chest. Jason looks dizzily up at Timothy, every inch of him covered in black and red but for his face. “I would think very carefully about my next words if I were you.” he tells Jason mildly, “They are many more like you waiting on the prison ship, and only one way you will exit this one if not by my side.”

His eyes slide to the view of the stars beyond the window, which is more than enough to get the message across to Jason. Going out an airlock doesn’t even make the top ten on his list of preferred ways to die.

Still shaking from the shock, Jason somehow manages to force himself to go limp beneath the prince’s foot.

“Better.” Timothy says, nodding down to him. He steps away, turning his back to Jason as he moves again to regard the fleet outside.

Jason watches a small hovering tray float into view next to him as, slowly, he manages to get himself back into a kneeling position, which feels slightly more dignified than lying down on the floor. Without looking down, Timothy picks a glass of wine up from the tray and takes a sip from it.

“I picked you, Jay, because I felt like it. Because I am the crown prince of the Red Empire, and anything I want is mine to take.” he turns his head so that he can regard Jason out of the corner of his eye. “And what I want is to know more about Gotham; its people, its rulers, from an insider’s perspective. I could have chosen any man; you were simply unlucky enough to be the first one I saw that took my fancy.”

Jason grits his teeth, “I’m not a traitor. I won’t tell you anything about Gotham or the Republic.”

Timothy is unperturbed. “Not yet you won’t. But until then, you will _serve_.” He sips from his glass. “You lost by the way.”

Jason wonders at his chances of making it across the room to wrap his hands around the prince’s scrawny neck and snap it before he can press the button again. They’d kill him afterwards, but in this case it might be worth it. “What?”

“The battle. The Republic lost it. The Empire has taken another of your worlds.”

The news hits Jason harder than he thought it would. The Empire has been gaining territory for months now, this battle was supposed to be where they turned the tide. “It won’t be for long.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. Lords Luthor and Ra’s’ battle plans are quite extensive, and I expect the Republic’s morale will crumble quite quickly, now that they’ve lost a member of the Gotham royal family.”

“A…” It’s only by merit of his teeth crushing down on his tongue that Jason stops himself from saying something catastrophic. “Which one?”

“The second prince. Jason.” Timothy’s expression is carved from ice. His words spoken like bullets. “His ship was shot down over the battlefield, atomised by all accounts. It’s only what he deserved.”

Jason clenches his shaking hands into fists against his lap as Tim steps back towards him again, leaning down so close that their faces are almost touching. “It’s funny, some of my men say you resemble him. Even the name is similar.” His eyes rove across Jason’s face, lingering intently on the scar. “Personally, I don’t see it.”

Sweat collects in a pool at the small of Jason’s back. “I’m not… I don’t…” he grits his teeth. “The Republic will pay you back for what you’ve done.”

Timothy snorts, “The way I see it, Jason’s death makes the Empire and the Republic even.”

A sudden burst of bright light distracts them both. Jason turns his head at the same time the prince does, to watch the first string of fireworks ignited in the middle of the circle made by the gathered Imperial ships.

“You see?” Timothy smiles, “We’re having quite the celebration over it.” He straightens, placing the wine glass back onto the tray, which has followed him from the window. “Now,” he adjusts his cape. “I have a meeting I must attend with Lord Ra’s. Slaves are not invited, I’m afraid, but I thought you might like to stay here and watch the fireworks while I’m gone.”

He presses something on the cuff controls, and Jason starts as first his ankles, then his wrists, lock together as the magnets on them activate once again. Like this, he’s helpless to move out of his kneeling position as the prince heads towards the door.

“You’re leaving me here like this?!” he asks, incredulously.

“Don’t worry.” Timothy smiles back at him, a cruel edge applied to the sensual curve of his mouth. “I won’t be gone that long.”

The door shuts behind him, and the moment it does, the room abruptly goes dark. Jason curses, moments before another burst of light from the fireworks outside casts the interior of the prince’s quarters in an ill shade of orange. Though at first he considers trying to struggle free, or roll somewhere, Jason is eventually forced to admit he really has no choice but to stay where he is.

Turning his eyes to the viewing window, he watches squadrons of Imperial starfighters dance between the larger cruisers and dreadnoughts, trailing still more bright lights and streams of colour behind them. He feels no pleasure at the sight, twisted up with worry inside both at his own fate, and the potential fate of the Republic.

And when he closes his eyes to shut the fireworks out, he again sees the image of a black and red painted fighter exploding into stardust, this time alongside its pilot, Conner Luthor. The man who was reportedly the best friend and possible betrothed of Timothy Drake, before Jason shot him down out of orbit above the city planet of Metropolis.

There’s no question about it, if he doesn’t get out of here soon, someone will eventually recognise him. And when they do…

He’s doomed.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to check out the full size art with close ups on [Jaykore's tumblr!](http://jaykore.tumblr.com/post/163611191400/jaytimweek-summer-2k17-day-7-gotham-tourist)
> 
> You can can also find me on tumblr at [firefrightfic](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/) as well!


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